The Burning of the Bat

It was a pitch at the hands that cracked the bat, and the split was heard throughout the deep forest. The batter dropped the bat upon making contact. First he looked down at his red hands, then at the massacre that lay at his feet. A treme run through the handle of the timber. The infield huddled around it, kneeling, caps bowed. The catcher picked up the splintered sultan swatter, and placed it in the middle of the fire pit. Pine tar and sunflower seeds were placed beside it, under a tepee of dry logs. When the sun fell, the fire was lit, and propelled by unused mosquito repellent and greasy pizza boxes. The fire grew to 60 feet 6 inches, but the players remained. There were no hymns and campfire songs, and no playing capture the flag under the starlight. They all just watched the bat slowly burn. The gloss made the bat glow; the fire curve. As the fire died, the bat turned from oak to ash. The players retreated to their cots, with their mitts under their pillows and their stirrups still on and fell asleep, but dreamed no more. When the sun returned, they huddled around the remains of the bat and each of them wiped the ashes under their eyes, as eye black.